


Allies

by Captains_and_Corporals



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captains_and_Corporals/pseuds/Captains_and_Corporals
Summary: When a mission goes wrong, one of the Heroes gets caught in their past, and their past might just come back to haunt them.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters or settings.

* * *

Hogan looked up from the dirt floor he was sprawled across. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the throbbing pain in his head. He’d been knocked unconscious by the Gestapo spy that had posed as an Underground agent. Hogan slammed his fist on the dirt, how could he be so stupid! Strength returned, Hogan pushed himself onto his knees and tried his best to recall the events of that evening.

He and Newkirk had left around 2200 to meet up with the ‘agent’. He remembered coming into the old barn and conversing with the man while Newkirk kept watch outside. Then the Kraut had pulled a gun and revealed his identity. Luckily, the man was unaware of the fact that Hogan had not come alone, and the second his gun touched the Colonels temple, a shot rang out and knocked the weapon out of the traitors hands. Hogan recalled Newkirk barging in, gun in hand, to meet the shocked Gestapo man. Then, Hogan’s memory blurred. He remembered the double-agent grabbing his own gun from where it was tucked under his black shirt and bringing it down sharply on his temple. Then it all went black. 

Newkirk saw Hogan stir out the corner of his eye. The fake agent had knocked him out, but knowing Colonel Hogan, that wouldn’t last long. The second Newkirk had seen his Commanding Officer hit the ground he had attacked the German, fueled by his own rage. Somewhere along the way, Newkirk had lost his gun to the stronger man, and had switched to using a throwing knife that he’d kept ever-present in a hidden pocket between his shoulder blades, his ‘pencil sharpener’. The Englishman jabbed and thrust with all of his strength and then some, but gained nothing more than a minor cut across the Gestapo’s cheek.

Newkirk was losing the fight, he knew when he was physically beat. The man stood taller over the POW, and he was far stronger with broad shoulders and muscular arms bulging against his civilian disguise. Yet, growing up in the East End of London, Newkirk had the experience, the instinct. And so the fight continued, Newkirk blocking each blow efficiently with the German spy doing the same. He glanced at Hogan, now standing tense on the sidelines, and the two met eyes. Hogan needed to do something, and fast. 

Hogan prepared himself to join the fight, but was interrupted when something caught his eye. There on the ground in front of him was Newkirk’s revolver. Hogan scanned the empty barn and located his own gun by a stack of hay and the German’s gun by the door. He grabbed the revolver and raised it, trying to aim at the constantly-moving Gestapo agent. The man must have noticed the gun-wielding Colonel because he quickly lunged at Newkirk, catching the Englishman off-guard, and pulled him into a headlock. The Kraut snached the knife out of the Cockney’s hand and pressed it against his neck. Newkirk struggled, but with every movement the spy pressed slightly harder, until a thin line of crimson appeared beneath the blade. 

The Colonel froze, knowing how heartless the Gestapo was, knowing that the agent could effortlessly end his friends life without a second thought. The barn fell silent, all three men frozen, tense with a growing nervousness. Then, everything happened at once. Newkirk jerked his head back, connecting with the Gestapo’s nose and instantly breaking it. He turned to face the German and the two tumbled to the ground.

They rolled around, throwing blows, while Hogan tried harder to aim at the agent. Finally, Newkirk pinned the man down and Hogan began to advance when the Kraut broke free and lunged, hands reaching for Newkirk’s throat. Hogan fired. The Gestapo agent fell back into the dirt, dead. Relief washed over Hogan as he dropped the gun, he slowly walked over and checked the man’s pulse to reassure himself. Then, Newkirk’s voice interrupted his relief.

“Guv’ner, I- I forgot...”

Hogan turned to his man kneeling beside the lifeless mass of the German.

“I f-forgot ‘e ‘ad me knife.”

Hogan’s eyes traveled from the Englishman’s pale face to his stomach, where the hilt of the pencil sharpener was buried in the Cockney’s soft flesh. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Shit.”

That was all Hogan could say before he was hit by a wall of panic crashing into him. He dove to the Cockney’s side without breaking eye contact. Newkirk opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t get the words out before his eyes glazed over and rolled back into his head. Hogan caught Newkirk as the Englishman fell unconscious, carefully laying his friend down on the earthen ground beneath them. Colonel Hogan could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he quickly assessed his fallen Corporal’s wound. Jaw clenched in fear and determination, he yanked the knife out of Newkirk’s stomach with a single, swift motion. It was either that or risk more damage.

Yet, Hogan wasn’t prepared for the gush of crimson liquid pouring from the wound. ‘Damn, must’ve hit something important,’ he thought as he pressed the dead Gestapo man’s shirt to Newkirk’s stomach. Hogan pulled his belt out and used it to secure the make-shift bandage to his partner’s damp shirt. Once Hogan confirmed the belt was tight, he turned his blood-stained fingers to Newkirk’s neck searching for a pulse. A weak beat played against his shaking fingers as Hogan watched the Englishman’s chest weakly rise and fall. He was alive. For now. 

The first thing Newkirk felt was pain. A burning, searing, white-hot pain radiating out from his stomach. Then, he felt movement, a steady up and down as if he were running. Next was the sturdy arms beneath him. He wasn’t running, but the man carrying him was. Newkirk heard the thud of each footfall, accompanied with a jab of pain from the movement. It was almost too much to bear... Almost. Suddenly, a wave of heat washed over him, drawing sweat from his pores almost instantaneously. He shuddered in the arms of his Commanding Officer. 

Hogan felt a shiver from the man in his arms and slowed his pace to a steady walk.

“Newkirk?”

He peered into his Corporal’s closed eyes, watching them flutter a moment before revealing a tired gaze. The usually bright blue eyes were dim, throwing a wave of fear at the Colonel. A thin layer of sweat had appeared on the Englishman’s brow. He was feverish. ‘How did that happen? Damn... This is not good.’ Hogan thought, knowing they were still a good ten minutes from camp, with a wounded POW with a fever, bleeding, and who knows what else.

Newkirk’s gaze was fuzzy, like vaseline had been smeared across his eyes. He blinked slowly a few times and a concerned face came into focus.

“Guv’ner?” Newkirk stared up at his CO’s worried face. Hogan seemed to be talking, but it sounded muffled, like cotton had been shoved in his ears. ‘Ruddy Kraut must’ve ‘it me pretty ‘ard’. Newkirk thought before opening his mouth to speak again. But before he could form the words Hogan accidentally bumped Newkirk’s side against his chest, drawing a pained moan from Newkirk’s throat. He clenched his teeth and looked up to Hogan, who seemed to be asking, ‘What did I do?’ “Nothin’ sir, I think that ruddy Kraut cracked one of me ribs.”

Newkirk looked up at Hogan’s horrified expression. “It ain’t too bad Guv, smarts a little that's for sure, but I’ll live.” Newkirk punctuated the sentence with a weak smile, before his body betrayed him and he drifted into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan watched the Corporal’s eyes droop, and felt his body go limp. He let out a sigh and, being careful with Newkirk’s ribs, started running again. Newkirk felt light in his arms, like he was carrying a child rather than a full-grown man. Hogan ran tirelessly until he reached the small clearing where the hidden entrance lay, disguised as a tree stump. He watched from the shadows as the searchlight passed by, then sprinted to the stump. Hogan re-adjusted, draping Newkirk over his shoulder so that he could open the stump and descend the ladder. A pained moan protested, but died off as Hogan closed the trapdoor.

On the ground, Hogan took off for the Barracks entrance. He paused only when Kinch appeared from the radio room. The two exchanged a silent glance, then Kinch took off for Wilson, and Hogan went for the ladder. Clambering out of the disguised bunk bed tunnel entrance, Hogan barely registered the concerned, confused, and horrified expressions around him. He looked over at his pale Corporal limp on his shoulder, and took off for the one person who could really help him. 

Kommandant Klink was doing paperwork, briefly skimming each document before lazily penning a sloppy signature on the line. Desperate to distract himself, Klink grabbed his decanter and poured himself a glass. He strode back to his desk when a commotion from outside caught his attention. He barely registered the prisoners flooding out of Barracks two, his focus was on the two figures in black trudging across the grounds. Klink glanced at his wristwatch, 00.34, it was past curfew, way past curfew. Suddenly, the two figures from before bust into Klink’s office. The Kommandant recognized the Senior POW, Colonel Hogan.

“Hoooogan, _was ist los_? What are you doing outside your Barracks? Dressed like that? You know the rules, curfew was-” Klink froze as he recognized the second figure, Corporal Newkirk. The unruly _Engländer_ Klink had sent to the Cooler countless times was lying limp on his office floor with blood seeping through a once-beige tunic pressed to his stomach. Klink’s own stomach churned at the sight and he forced his eyes away. They fell on the Corporal’s face, pale and dripping sweat, then they traveled to Hogan’s face. The American wore an expression that Klink had never seen on him before, fear. Desperate, pure fear. Without thinking of his reputation, or Hochstetter, or Burkhalter, or The Third Reich, or even of Germany... Klink dove for his phone. 

Sergeant Schultz had just finished corralling the prisoners back into their respective Barracks, and now took off for Klink’s office. He burst in the door with a wide grin. “ _Mein Kommandant_ , I am proud to report, I have got prisoners _back_ into their Barracks! You see, I was patrolling when I saw Colonel Ho-” Schultz stopped abruptly when he took in the scene. Klink looked up at him with a stern expression.

“Schultz, get the medic, Wilson. Then my car. _SCHNELL_ !!!”

“ _Jawohl Herr Kommandant!_ ” Schultz bolted from the door and out to Barracks 4. He burst into the room to find Wilson, medical bag in hand, with Kinch waiting at the door. Schultz turned on his heel, not bothering to work out the logic, and took off for the Kommandant’s office. 

Sergeant Wilson, the camp medic, had been informed minutes earlier of the situation. Unfortunately, Kinch knew about as much as he did- nothing, but both men knew that it had to be bad. As Wilson approached the still body of a barely-lucid Peter Newkirk, he wasn’t at all prepared for what met him.

“Damn.” He muttered under his breath as he removed the bloody 'bandage'. “Alright, Colonel, we have to get his shirt off.”

Hogan had already produced a knife at the words, but froze at the sight of the blade in his hands. The pencil sharpener, stained red and dripping with blood. Wilson knew this had been the weapon used, but nonetheless used it to slice through the Englishman’s shirt. The wound was thin and clean, but deep. Blood flowed from it freely, ‘deep puncture wound, maybe internal bleeding…' Wilson shook his head, he had to dress the wound before anything else. That’s when a gurgling sound came from Newkirk on the floor, and Wilson carefully, but quickly, rolled him onto his side and thrust the heel of his hand between the Englishman's shoulder blades. Suddenly, the Corporal spat a spray of crimson onto the rug. Then, went limp once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Hogan looked to Wilson, but needed no confirmation. The knife had punctured Newkirk's stomach.

“Internal bleeding, sir. Blood is leaking into his stomach, he’ll keep trying to puke it up, but eventually he could choke. I can try to slow the bleeding down, but that’s about it. He needs a hospital, sir. Fast.”

Wilson didn’t look up as he spoke, he just bandaged the Corporal’s abdomen. Hogan looked to Klink, who wore a blank, dazed expression. Then he heard a familiar rumbling outside, Klink’s staff car.

“Klink, you and Schultz, get Newkirk to the car, I’m going to get Kinch,” and without looking back, Hogan left for his Barracks. He made a beeline to his office, where he was met by Carter, LeBeau, and Kinch.

“It’s bad, the knife… it hit his stomach, he lost a lot of blood…” Hogan trailed off, unsure if he could continue. A thousand doubts barraged his mind. “Kinch, I need you to come. LeBeau, Carter, you guys will have to stay, I’m sorry.” LeBeau and Carter didn’t protest at the Colonel’s words, they simply watched as he left. 

Kinch was standing outside the car door, handing Newkirk off to Wilson. The three men were sitting in the back, stretching Newkirk across their laps. Hogan, still in his mission outfit, had grabbed the Englishman’s RAF greatcoat to use as a pillow and was supporting Newkirk’s head in his lap. Wilson sat in the middle, monitoring Newkirk’s pulse and wound. Kinch sat with the Cockney’s feet, who was still in his muddy boots and civvies. Kinch looked down to his friend’s battered body. Bruises covered his left ribs and stomach, with a large purple one peeking out from under the bandages. His left eye was swollen shut with another cluster of bruises surrounding it.

“He sure put up a helluva fight.” Kinch observed quietly.

“That’s Newkirk for ya.” Hogan’s quiet reply echoed throughout the silent car.

Newkirk slowly came to, feeling the throbbing, burning pain again. This time though, it was manageable. Then he felt movement, he was in a car. Eyelids drooping unintentionally, he forced them open, fighting them to stay. The world was fuzzy again, and his ears were stuffed with cotton, but it seemed slightly better than last time.

Newkirk’s ears cleared up before his eyes and he heard Kinch's voice from down by his feet, “He sure put up a helluva fight.”

That made Newkirk smile painfully, and he opened his mouth to reply, when another voice sounded from above him.

“That’s Newkirk for ya.”

He could hear the sorrow, guilt, and pain in his Commanding Officer’s voice, and forced himself to form words. “Yeah, Guv, that’s me.”

“Newkirk?” Hogan stared down at the Cockney in his lap, who stared back with dim eyes and a forced smirk.

“The one ‘n’ only.” Newkirk gave a weak laugh that developed into a painful cough, then an even more painful retching sound, like he was trying to puke. Hogan looked down, and began to panic again as Wilson leaned over and rolled Newkirk onto his side, thumping his back like in Klink's office. Hogan watched as Newkirk spat another mouthful of blood onto the floor of the car. He rolled Newkirk back flat to see a few dots of blood on the Englishman’s lip. Hogan tentatively wiped them away while Newkirk tried to catch his breath between pained gasps. Suddenly, the car jerked as Schultz hit a pothole, causing the Englishman to cry out.

“Cor, _blimey_ ! That bloody ‘urt!”

Wilson swore and carefully checked the wounds again.

“ _Es t_ _ut mir leid!_ I am so sorry, Newkirk!” Schultz panicked from the seat in front of Hogan.

“It’s alright Schultzie.” Hogan looked down... Newkirk sounded exhausted. The Englishman raised a hand to his head and squeezed his eyes closed. Hogan watched as the Cockney’s arm slid off his face and his eyes relaxed. Wilson leaned over to place his finger on Newkirk’s neck.

“Unconscious, but still with us, sir.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Schultz avoided every pothole from that point forward. He glanced back at the prisoners, but through the dark he could only make out their faint outlines. He pressed the gas a bit harder. Schultz didn’t care, he had heard Newkirk, he was getting worse. Schultz had grown on _der Engländer_ over the years, even though he was constantly getting in trouble. Honestly, Schultz couldn’t imagine Stalag 13 without him, so he drove faster.

The hospital appeared in the distance and Schultz made sure not to jerk the car as he pulled in. The large Sergeant quickly made his way around to let the POW’s out. First Kinch, then Wilson, then Newkirk, then Hogan. Schultz was horror-struck by the sight of Newkirk. His face was white as a sheet and sweat poured from it. The bandages, though fresh, already had small patches of red adorning them where blood had managed to push its way through. Schultz could hardly see the shallow rise and fall of _der Engländer_ ’s chest. 

Kommandant Klink had been silent for the entire ride. Now, he just stood there, riding crop tucked snugly under his arm, watching the prisoners gingerly lift Newkirk from the car. He followed them into the hospital, and watched as they were greeted by a flurry of medical staff. Klink pulled one of the nurses aside and explained the situation the best he could.

“ _One of my prisoners had a little mishap in the kitchens. You know how those Allied filth can be, utterly clueless.”_ Klink returned the nurse’s smile and turned to find Hogan, arms crossed, behind him.

“Allied filth, huh?” A smirk danced on Hogan’s face, briefly covering the worry.

“Yes, Hogan, I am still a German. Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened. That's an order.” Klink searched the American’s mischievous eyes and found a flash of guilt at the words. Klink sighed, this could wait until later...even he hated to see Hogan in this sort of position. “Nevermind Hogan, we can discuss this later.” He waved his hand dismissively and settled into a waiting room chair. 

Now, Hogan sat in the waiting room. Four hours had gone by. Wilson was sleeping with his head on Kinch’s shoulder, who had dozed off as well. Klink was asleep in a chair, his head against the wall. Yet, Schultz sat upright wide awake. The camp guard wore a face of worry as he stared out to the hall that Newkirk had disappeared down hours before. Hogan abruptly stood, making the guard flinch, and began to pace. Schultz simply watched as the prisoner paced back and forth, back and forth. This went on for a good ten minutes before a Doctor finally appeared with a clipboard and a stern face.

“Are you here for _der Engländer_?”

“Yes, we are.” Hogan replied through clenched teeth, he hated the way the German spat _Engländer_ . The Doctor glared at Hogan, then turned to Klink, who had been woken by Schultz, and the two began to converse in German. Hogan forced himself to relax as the Doctor spoke with Klink before nudging Kinch and Wilson awake. The group of prisoners gathered around the Doctor and Klink. Each wore a face of worry as the Doctor finished and Klink began to translate.

"This is _Doktor Müller,_ " Klink began, gesturing to the Doctor beside him, "He says Newkirk is in a stable condition. The...er...wound was take care of without complications. He also told me that they found a cracked rib and bruising," He paused and glanced suspiciously at Hogan, "but wrapped the rib. He is on pain medication for those. Newkirk also still has a bit of a fever, but they gave him medicine for that too." Klink finished and looked over the prisoners, wearing faces of relief.

Then, Hogan spoke to the Doktor, “Can we see him, Doc?”

Schultz stepped in to translate, but Müller seemed to understand anyway, and answered in thickly accented English. "I vill show you zee way. Follow.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Hogan matched Doctor Müller’s pace as they strode down the hallway, willing the man to go faster. Suddenly, someone grabbed Hogan’s arm, yanking him back. He spun around to face Kinch, who nodded his head at the door next to them, next to Newkirk. Hogan glanced inside and saw a well-pressed Luftwaffe uniform laying upon the hospital bed. He looked to Kinch, who nodded in understanding. Hogan then crossed the hallway and peered into the room across from Newkirk’s. SS, this one a Lieutenant. He turned to Kinch with a grim expression. Newkirk was an Allied prisoner in a German hospital filled with Nazi’s.

Hogan slowly passed through the doorway into Newkirk’s room. He stood just in front of the door to take in the scene. Newkirk was laying in a typical hospital bed, with a thin white blanket pulled up over his chest. Peeking out from beneath the blanket was a hospital gown covering the Corporal’s shoulders. Hogan’s eyes drifted to his man’s face which was still pale against his dark hair. Although some color had returned, the Englishman still looked feverish with an unhealthy pallor of his skin. His left eye was surrounded by an angry bruise that matched the one on his jaw. Hogan tentatively crossed the room to stand next to Newkirk’s bed. Careful to avoid the IV, he placed his hand on the Cockney’s arm.

Then Klink’s voice sounded behind him. “We need to get back to camp, Hogan, roll call is in two hours. _Schnell_.”

With a final glance back, the men filed out of the room. 

* * *

Newkirk’s head was fuzzy when he woke again. ‘Drugs.’ The thought appeared unfocused in his mind, blurry almost. He did a quick examination of his injuries. The pain in his stomach was more of a throbbing now that it was all stitched up and the painkillers had taken effect. He could feel the bandages around his ribs and stomach, constricting his breathing slightly. Newkirk could feel his swollen face, but no pain came from it. Everything felt fuzzy though, an aftereffect of the narcotics he assumed, but Newkirk could faintly make out voices from within his room.

The first voice was coated with a thick German accent, and spoke with authority. “Not yet Hans, ve must vait until evening to get rid of him.”

A second voice, presumably Hans, rang out. “But Fritz, zis Allied trash is taking up a German bed! _Der Engländer_ is nozing but a vaste of space.”

Then, a third voice spoke, this one sounded older than the others. “Both of you, shut up, he ees vaking up.”

Three pairs of boots stomped across the room with classic Nazi pride. “Hallo there _Engländer_ , ve must take our leave, but don’t you vorry, ve vill be back for you.”

And Newkirk drifted off to the sound of boots on the tile floor. 

* * *

Back at Stalag 13, Hogan had just got off the truck with Wilson and Kinch. The medic headed back to his Barracks while Schultz took the truck back to the motor pool. Kinch started off for Barracks Two and Hogan made to follow him when Klink appeared in front of him.

"Hogan, my office. Now."

Hogan and Kinch shared a glance, then Hogan followed the Kommandant into the office. Dramatically collapsing into the chair placed in front of Klink’s desk, Hogan looked up as Klink sat before him.

“Hogan, I will get right to the point, how did Newkirk receive that injury?”

Hogan had expected the question and answered tiredly, “Well, you see sir, Newkirk was escaping…”

“Escaping!”

“Yes sir, without my permission! So naturally, I followed him. When I finally caught up with him, he was hiding on a farm. I scared him half to death when I barged in; poor guy fell out of the hayloft he was hiding in! Fell right on top of a pitchfork he did!” Hogan finished with an exhausted flourish of his hand.

Klink looked at him suspiciously for a long moment, then gave in just wanting to be left alone. “Alright Hogan. Dismissed!” Hogan left with a tight smile that soon faded as he faced his next task.

He had to explain everything to Carter and LeBeau, the two people that were closest to Newkirk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback is in Italics

LeBeau held his beret in his hands, unconsciously kneading it in his fingers as he waited for _le Colonel_ to speak, which he did. “Relax boys, Newkirk’s fine.” The words hit LeBeau with a wave of relief. After seeing his friend dripping blood onto the barrack floor, LeBeau had only thought of the many times Newkirk had sacrificed himself for him, from the very beginning. Newkirk had already spent months in the Stalag before LeBeau arrived. He was so young then, constantly getting in trouble. They met in the Cooler, in next-door cells. LeBeau remembered the encounter like yesterday. He had been thrown in for mouthing off to a guard. This was just before Klink had arrived, when the camp was run by a Kommandant who didn’t take jokes well.

_LeBeau had refused to speak any English. He only knew the basics in the first place, which had enraged the Kommandant who reacted as if every word LeBeau uttered in_ Francais _was an insult to him. The words that had landed him in the cell were_ _simply a request to speak with him about the miniscule food rations, well... that and a brief scolding on his horrible taste._

* * *

Newkirk was drifting again, Doctor Müller had just left from replacing his bandages, and the second the door closed Newkirk felt his eyelids drop. This time though, he didn’t have the usual nightmare of reliving the barn scene, instead he found himself walking down memory lane, specifically, the first time he met Louis.

_He was on day 27 of his 30 days in the Cooler, planning his next escape, when shouting from the hallway brought him out of his plotting. He could hear Schultz, one of the guards he had come to like, arguing with someone rapidly speaking French. Newkirk pressed himself against the cool metal bars to get a look at the Frenchman, still ranting, but only caught a glimpse of red before Schultz threw him in the cell next to his._

_The loud Frenchman kept shouting long after Schultz was gone. This went on for a good twenty minutes before Newkirk heard the Frenchman’s voice give. The Englishman pressed his ear against the wall between them and heard the man collapse on the straw cot. Newkirk couldn't care less, just another prisoner to ignore. That is, until he heard the Frenchman softly start to cry._

* * *

_LeBeau fell onto what barely passed as a bed, angrily fighting tears. He hated this. There were only a few French in the camp at the time, and LeBeau was stuck in a barracks full of Englishmen. English did not come easy to him. He could usually follow along, but still had trouble making sense of all the different accents. He had heard Britt’s, Scott’s, and Irishmen, all speaking the same words in different ways._

_Yet, no matter the accent, all of them got their laughs at LeBeau. For his height, for his nationality, for whatever they could. It was just like back at school when he was bullied for being short. Thinking back on this made LeBeau cry harder in frustration. He didn’t care- nobody could hear him anyway. He was alone, or so he thought. Suddenly, a calm voice echoed through the otherwise quiet room._

_“Are you alright, mate?”_

_LeBeau jumped, embarrassed. He’d thought that he was alone in the dark cooler._

_Newkirk heard the Frenchman’s quiet sobs intensify, and unable to take it any longer, he called out to the other man. “Are you alright, mate?”_

_No reply, he must not understand English. Newkirk racked his brain for any French he had picked up when the Frenchman spoke. “Who is there?”_

_So the Frenchie did know English. “Me names Newkirk, Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF.”_

_The Frenchman was silent for a moment, then replied. “Corporal Louis LeBeau, Free French Air Forces.”_

_Newkirk didn’t really have any friends in camp; he would hang out with the other Englishmen, but he didn't consider them friends. Growing up in the East End meant you were poor and usually had a bad background. Newkirk had lost his mum at a young age and grew up as the youngest in a big family. He was constantly abused by his alcoholic dad or older brothers. The only person in his family who cared about him was his older sister, Mavis._

_She was the reason he stayed in school, until he was around 13 and needed to focus on finding enough food to feed his family instead of learning arithmetic. Then, only two years later dear old dad kicked him out of the house, and with his uneducated background, Newkirk was forced to live off the streets, making money by pick-pocketing. Finally, the circus came along, scooped him up, and gave him work. But even then he didn’t have friends. Yet, as Newkirk talked with the Frenchman, he thought maybe he’d give this_ LeBeau _fellow a try._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback

_LeBeau rested his head against the cool wall of his cell. He and Newkirk had been talking for the past ten minutes, mostly about the camp, with LeBeau having to stop him occasionally when when the Brit used words or expressions the Frenchman had never heard before. Newkirk spoke in an accent that LeBeau hadn’t heard around the camp, though he had only been there for a little over a week. The Frenchman was curious and, steering away from the topic of camp, asked the Englishman about it._

_“Newkirk, where are you from? I have never heard your accent before.” The cooler went quiet, and LeBeau instantly regretted asking a personal question, thinking he had gone too far. There was a long moment of quiet; only the sound of rats scurrying in the darkness. Finally, with a sigh, Newkirk spoke._

_“Well mate, I ain’t from the same part of London as most the other blokes ‘round ‘ere. I grew up in the East End, you see. Not the high-class part of town if yah know what I mean.” LeBeau understood, and decided not to press the topic anymore, hearing the defensiveness mingled with hurt in Newkirk's voice._

_Newkirk was glad LeBeau hadn’t asked anymore. He hated talking about home. Instead he told him more about the unwritten rules of the camp and talking about the Kommandant and the guards, when they were interrupted by the creak of the heavy metal door leading outside. Supper was here. A tin bowl of watery soup and a cup of water was the customary cooler meal, Newkirk heard the Frenchman complain about it. Over the past hour, Newkirk had learned of the Frenchman’s passion for cooking, and apparently supper didn’t meet his standards._

_The guard stopped in between his cell and LeBeau's, obviously bothered by the rapid, angry French coming from within the latter cell. Newkirk heard the clang of his own dinner hitting the floor. Then, the sound of metal on metal as the guard hit his rifle against the door._

_“What was that little Frenchie? You do not like the food?” Straussman sneered, "You will learn to be grateful!"_

_Newkirk’s fist clenched in response to the guard's harsh voice. Corporal Straussman was one of the more abusive guards in the camp. The Englishman had several run-ins with the short-tempered guard, and many infirmary trips to show for it. He heard the sound of keys and deduced that Straussman was going to show a bit of that temper to LeBeau. Protective of his new friend, Newkirk was determined to distract the guard, at any cost._

_LeBeau watched the furious guard fumble with the keys. He felt fear crawling up from his stomach as the guard gave a vicious smile and slid the right key into the lock. LeBeau scrambled back to the farthest corner from the guard, who smiled wider at the display of fear and thinking he was going to enjoy what was coming next... when suddenly a voice rang out._

_“Oi, Fritzie, ‘ow about you be a dear fetch me a new dinner since you spilled mine on the bleedin’ floor? Ruddy Krauts, I tell yah.”_

_Straussman whipped around and glared from LeBeau’s cell to Newkirk’s. The guard locked the Frenchman away with a warning look and spun on his heel to unlock the cell next door. LeBeau ran to the bars and pressed his head against it, trying to see outside. The Frenchman froze when he heard fist meet flesh and a soft groan._

_“You’ll ‘ave to ‘it better than that Fritzie.” Newkirk’s voice had lost it’s confident tone, but still was steady, like he’d done this all before. LeBeau sank back to the cot, unable to stop the punishment being delivered in the cell next door. After what felt like an eternity, LeBeau watched as Straussman left the cooler. And with the thud of the heavy door closing, it dawned on LeBeau that Newkirk had just saved him from whatever he suffered. What he couldn't know was that it was the first time of many to come._


	9. Chapter 9

Newkirk woke with a start to find himself back in the hospital bed. As the cloudy emotions from a dream slowly faded, the was a growing awareness of sharp pain in his stomach. Newkirk slowly attempted to raise himself into a sitting position, but the moment he moved the pain grew into a burning, blinding pain. The Englishman’s arms gave way and he fell back with a shout. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip to keep from crying out again.

Doctor Müller appeared by his side with a syringe a few moments later and proceeded to inject the liquid into the IV tube. Finally awake enough to make sense of the Doctor, Newkirk decided to ask the question he had so desperately wanted an answer to. “M-me mates... when can I go ‘ome?” Müller glanced up and his cold demeanor seemed soften slightly. 

“Zee Kommandant has scheduled a visit this afternoon.” The Doctor softened the slightest bit more. "Sleep now, _Engländer_." 

Newkirk didn't hear more as he faded back into sleep.

* * *

Hogan sat at the table in the Barracks, and his eyes drifted to LeBeau. When he had explained to him and Carter the condition Newkirk was in, LeBeau had remained silent while Carter ranted his relief. After that, he was quiet through the entire morning, only mumbling a ‘good morning’ to Hogan. The Colonel glanced at his watch. It was almost time for their visit to the hospital. He got up from the table, set his coffee mug in the sink, and went to gather the others. Hogan, Kinch, LeBeau and Carter piled into one of the camp trucks with Klink and Schultz and they took off for the hospital. Hogan sat in the silent truck, his head against the cool fabric of the canopy. 

When Newkirk woke again, he was aware of was voices around him.

“Can we wake him up, _mon Colonel?_ ”

_LeBeau!_ Newkirk tried to open his heavy eyes to look at his friend, but they wouldn’t respond.

“Let him sleep LeBeau, poor guy’s been through the wringer and back.” Kinch was standing at the far right corner of his bed, next to LeBeau.

“He’s right LeBeau, Newkirk deserves some sleep.” Hogan was on Newkirk’ s left, he could feel the weight of the Colonel’s hand on his arm.

“Yeah! He just got stabbed ya’ know. See, my Uncle got stabbed once, but in his shoulder, still he slept for days on end! When he woke up, he…”

“Blimey Carter! Did yah talk ‘im awake too?” Newkirk forced his eyes open to peer at the Sergeant on his left by his feet with a smile.

“Newkirk, _mon ami_ , you’re awake!” LeBeau’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when Newkirk turned to look at him.

“No thanks to Carter ‘ere.” Newkirk flashed a teasing smile in Carter's direction, who smiled back sheepishly. 

LeBeau looked over at his friend with a smile. The younger Corporal had bruises dotting his face and on the area of exposed chest LeBeau could see through the hospital gown. There was a small bandage covering a cut on Newkirk’s face. Then his eyes traveled to the Englishman’s stomach, where he knew a thick bandage was hidden beneath the thin white blanket.

“I’m okay mate, right as rain. Doc says I’ll be out of ‘ere soon.” LeBeau looked up at Newkirk and the Cockney smiled softly, an expression the Corporal almost never wore.

Newkirk shifted in his bed and began to push himself into a sitting position. LeBeau grabbed a pillow to support him when Newkirk suddenly sucked in a sharp breath and moaned in pain. His hand flew to his stomach and he fell back into the bed. LeBeau glanced up at Hogan, who looked back with a concerned expression. Newkirk noticed and frowned at the sign of weakness.

“It’s nothin’ mates, just smarts a bit. Took me by surprise that all.”

LeBeau had known Newkirk longer than any of the other men, and he knew when the Englishman was lying. 


End file.
